


Withdrawal

by sherlockthearchangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John Watson, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Suicidal Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockthearchangel/pseuds/sherlockthearchangel
Summary: His face was pale and gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot with black rings around them. He had also allowed his beard to grow in nearly completely. If anyone looked at him they would immediately know that he was an addict. An addict for what? He wasn't sure. He'd dabbled with all kinds of drugs in the last 25 years; marijuana, cocaine, heroin, LSD, and many others he had come across at University. However, it was clear his drug of choice had always been John Watson. This was merely the withdrawal.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reposting my works from my old account so that I can delete that account. Sorry if you've already read this.

The harsh light pelted his eyelids as he blinked awake. He opened his eyes to stare at the sitting room ceiling. He sat up and realized he had been laying on the floor and cringed at the smell of stale vomit from beside him. He grabbed the empty syringe that was discarded on the floor from the night before.

The previous night was foggy in his brain. He remembered spotting John walking past the scene on his way to work. A feeling of painful grief engulfed him like fire and he left Lestrade without a word. He sped home and within minutes had drugged himself into a numb bliss. He didn't measure the solution. He should've but he didn't.

He tossed the needle in the trash before getting on his hands on knees to scrub his own vomit from the floor. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson knowing that he had turned to his old coping mechanism. He was disturbed at the lack of actual stomach contents. It was obvious his diet was mostly liquor and tea.

He missed John, but John hated him.

He had abandoned Sherlock after Mary's death leaving nothing but an ominous hateful letter. The letter contents were too painful to even recount. All he knew was after reading it he had deleted it from his mind and stopped his daily texts to John. He tossed the soiled rag into the trash before searching the couch cushions for his phone. He found it buried underneath the middle cushion. He withdrew it and clicked it on, slightly disappointed to see no calls or texts for John. He groaned at the missed calls from Lestrade. Reluctantly he called back. The DI picked up after three rings.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. I received your missed calls." Sherlock's voice came out hoarse and scratchy.

"Are you feeling alright?" Greg's voice was full of concern.

"Yes, of course. Now please, what do you want." Sherlock sat heavily onto the couch and tapped his fingers against the arm.

"I uh- Mary's funeral, it's tomorrow. Are you coming? No one's heard from you in a month." It was clear how uncomfortable Greg was.

"I've been busy." He cringed at how fake the lie sounded. "I will not be attending Mary's service out of respect for Doctor Watson. He has specifically requested that I refrain from contacting him and his daughter."

Greg sighed through the phone, "I'll talk to him. She was your friend, you have a right to be there."

Sherlock felt panic gripping him, "please don't. Let it be, Lestrade."

Sherlock hung up the phone and reached with shaky hands for his kit that was left on the coffee table from the night before. His breathing was picking up and he couldn't seem to control it. With unsteady hands, he prepped the solution before getting high once again. He leaned onto the armrest and closed his eyes as he became numb once again.

The phone ringing is what woke him. He glanced at the clock noting that the time was two in the afternoon. He quickly answered it and held it weakly to his ear.

"What?" He snapped.

"It's Molly. I-i was just letting you know that we have some new specimens in today if you're interested." She seemed nervous, well more nervous than usual. That meant someone had asked her to reach out.

"No." He coldly replied, "I'm quite occupied."

He hung up without saying goodbye. He threw his legs over the couch and stood, swaying slightly. He made his way to the bathroom where he flicked on the light. He cringed at his own appearance. His face was pale and gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot with black rings around them. He had also allowed his beard to grow in nearly completely. If anyone looked at him they would immediately know that he was an addict.

An addict for what? He wasn't sure. He'd dabbled with all kinds of drugs in the last 25 years; marijuana, cocaine, heroin, LSD, and many others he had come across at University. However, it was clear his drug of choice had always been John Watson. This was merely the withdrawal.

He splashed water on his face trying to wash away how impure he felt. Running a hand through his unruly curls he glared at his fading appearance. He blinked and the glass shattered in front of him a clear fist imprint in it. Sherlock growled at the pain radiating from his hand. He brought it up to his face and watched the blood run down his arm in mild fascination. He picked the glass from his hand and rinsed it off in the sink. He pulled the first aid kit from below the sink and lazily wrapped it in gauze and medical tape.

Once finished he walked back to the main room before searching for a pack of cigarettes. He was annoyed to find the pack on the coffee table empty along with his three secret stashes. Growing in frustration he snatched the coat from the hook and pulled it on with force. He shoved his hands into his pockets before venturing into the cold London air. It only took him a handful of minutes to reach the man on the corner who sold them.

He bought several packs and a new lighter before he began his trek back to his flat. Loneliness was what he needed, what he deserved. He ignored the black car following him back to his flat. He assumed it was Mycroft making sure he wasn't getting anyone else killed.

Once back inside he rushed to his bedroom and out of his window onto the fire escape. He spent nearly two hours simply staring at the alley walls and smoking. His phone pinged in his pocket and he pulled it out.

"Please come tomorrow, I don't care what John thinks. -GL"

Sherlock scoffed causing the smoke in his lungs to rush into the air. Lestrade was being childish about this. He didn't bother replying and shoved the phone back into his coat. He stood, realizing that the shakiness was starting to return. He shot up again and spent the evening in a haze. At some point in his high, alcohol became part of the mix and pretty soon he was strumming his violin and making an awful screeching noise. He tossed the item aside as his hands were just too uncoordinated.

He grabbed the letter on the mantle in a fit of rage and ripped it to shreds. It only served as a reminder of how alone he was. How alone he was meant to be. He felt his eyes swell with tears. John would never forgive him but he at least wanted to write something. He grabbed a random paper and a pen before writing.

Dear John,

I cannot express the sorrow I feel for your loss. I would without a moment's hesitation trade my life for hers. Though it wouldn't be much of a trade as it was my end anyways. I hope you find solace without me and the deep pain I have caused in your life. I broke a vow and I can't fix it and I can't change it. I won't ask for your forgiveness because I know I am not worthy. I hope you are well John. Do not worry about future contact from me, I suppose this is my final farewell. I am alone now, and I know that's what I deserve. Give my love to Rosie. Tell Lestrade it's not his fault and take care of Mrs. Hudson.

-SH

Sherlock stabbed the letter to the mantle with the letter opener before trudging to his bedroom. He fell into a sleep full of nightmares.

The morning sun burned his eyes and his whole body ached. He glanced at his mobile and saw several missed calls from Greg. No doubt it was about the funeral.

He wasn't even sure when or how he ended up standing eerily behind a tree in the cemetery. He was shaking as he brought the cigarette to his trembling lips. From what he could see the service was beautiful. He watched John speak as well as some of their mutual friends. By the time the coffin had been lowered into the ground Sherlock had burned his way through six cigarettes. He could've sworn he was perfectly hidden out of sight. John had direct eye contact with him and the shorter man's eyes filled with untouched rage. Sherlock stomped the cigarette out before nearly sprinting from the cemetery.

He didn't take a cab home. He walked, appreciating the cold air against his feverish skin. By the time he made it back to Baker Street, it was noon. He was startled by Lestrade's police cruiser parked out front along with two others. He rushed into the home and up the stairs in seconds. He burst into the flat to find the place turned upside down and police picking apart everything.

"Really?" Greg held up a fairly large evidence bag of his various illegal drugs.

"Fine take it. I can get more." He pushed past the DI and flopped onto the couch.

"Sherlock, you can't do this to yourself."

"Why do you care?" He snapped back.

"What would John think of this?" Lestrade set the bag onto the coffee table.

"John's gone." He avoided his eyes.

"Sherlock, he just lost his wife. He's hurting, you can see that." Lestrade made a mental note to himself to call John later.

Sherlock glared at him, "Just leave me alone."

“Fine. If you want to destroy yourself go head." Lestrade snatched the bag off the table before leaving. His team followed close behind.

Sherlock shot up from the couch and ran for the kitchen. He was angered to see his floorboard pulled up where he stashed drugs and it was empty. He pulled out his phone before texting Mycroft.

"I need money. -SH"

"Sorry, brother you've been cut off. Get sober and we'll revisit this conversation. -MH"

Sherlock tossed the phone to the other side of the couch in a fit of rage. Damn Mycroft for withholding the trust money.

\----------------  
Two days later found Sherlock shivering in bed from withdrawal. He'd scared Mrs. Hudson off with his irritability. Now he was left alone shivering and sweating from fever. The wastebasket by his bed radiated an awful smell but he felt too weak to even leave his bed.

He heard the door to the flat swing open. He listened in confusion as the sound of heavy footsteps traveled right outside his door. Whoever was there timidly knocked.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was hard with military training.

Sherlock's eyes widened in fear. He was here to finish the job once and for all. He was sure of it.

"John?" Sherlock questioned.

John sighed, "yes, can I come in?"

"If you wish."

The door slowly creaked open and John stepped in. John observed the scene before him. Sherlock snuggled into bed, the sheets strung around. His former friend looked ill and exhausted.

John shifted awkwardly on his feet. "I told you to stay away. You had no right to be at her funeral."

Sherlock shrunk back in fear but said nothing in return.

"Greg called me, said you were back on drugs." John's eyes hardened. "I'm not your keeper. I don't need people calling me when you can't handle yourself."

Sherlock said nothing, not trusting his voice. His urge to cry was strong along with nausea in his stomach. John stared at him expecting an answer. The anxiety and guilt were eating him alive. He lunged for the basket and heaved nothing but bile into it. John just continued to stare.

"I'll be back. I'm not finished with this conversation." John stomped from the room leaving Sherlock panting over the side of the bed.

John hurried to the kitchen where he filled a glass with water. He started to return to the bedroom when a piece of paper stabbed to the mantle caught his eye. He set the glass down and removed the paper from the knife. He unfolded it recognizing Sherlock's handwriting. He began reading when he realized this note was actually addressed to him.

'Final Farewell'? What did that mean? John pent up frustration seemed to melt. What was Sherlock planning? John grabbed the water and returned to the room. He passed the cup Sherlock, who drank it with shaky hands. The water spilled over the edge as it passed his lips.

"Sherlock, what is this?" John held the letter up.

Sherlock nearly choked as he spotted what was in John's hand. "It's nothing. Just throw it away."

"No! Final farewell? Tell me what that means!" John pleaded.

Sherlock frowned and placed the glass onto the nightstand. "I planned on leaving London." He admitted coldly. "I apologize. I insisted that Lestrade not contact you. Sorry, he wasted your time."

"Oh. Why- why are you leaving London?" He wasn't even sure why he was asking. It just seemed a 221b without Sherlock was impossible.

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "I'm retiring."

John gawked at him. "Why is that?"

"I no longer have anything here. It's best to move on." Sherlock turned away from John hoping to end the conversation.

"That's it? You're just going to pack up and leave everything?" John stepped closer to the bed. "Being a coward are we?"

Sherlock sighed, "please just go."

"No." John sat on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me. I know you're lying. You don't want to leave."

Sherlock sat up with an irritated grunt. "There's no point in staying in London because the only thing I cared about hates me. Oh and not to mention my brother decided to cut me off so I can't afford Baker Street on my own. Plus do you honestly think that Scotland Yard enjoys working with me after all my lies? So yes I'm leaving London." Sherlock felt his jaw clamp shut after realizing he had just admitted everything.

John stared at him for a long moment, "karma is a bitch, isn't it?" He sneered before standing and leaving the room.

Sherlock's blood went cold at John's words. He had told one final lie but perhaps it was for the best. He was leaving London, just not alive. He snuggled deeper into the covers and fell into a fevered sleep.

Several weeks later he felt better or at least it was the best he's felt since Mary died. He'd convinced Mycroft to reopen to the accounts with proof of sobriety and the fact he had bills to pay. He shrugged on his Belstaff with the intention of seeing Billy. He snuck out of the flat trying desperately to not wake Mrs. Hudson. It was nearing four am.

By the time he had purchased the drugs, it was four-thirty. He was high five minutes later and sitting on Bart's roof by five. He hummed as he allowed his feet to dangle off the edge. The wind felt amazing and it felt like the first breath of air in over two months. The sun was starting to rise, covering the city in an orange and pink haze. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He withdrew it to see a message from Greg.

"Drugs bust. -GL" Sherlock scoffed.

"You won't find anything. Our association has come to an end, goodbye. -SH" Sherlock leaned onto his hands as he continued to watch the busy city streets below.

"I've got CCTV footage of you purchasing drugs from Bill Wiggins. You either come to me or I'll find you. -GL"

He set the phone beside him choosing to ignore Lestrade's threat. As he looked down he saw a certain brown-haired pathologist staring at him in shock. He was unsurprised when she grabbed her own phone and called him. It vibrated on the concrete beside him. He ignored it. After two more missed calls she apparently decided to call someone else. He didn't care though as he continued to watch the city. Molly's cries could be heard from below but he didn't care.

Once he took the dive everything would be okay. John would no longer worry about his presence and Mycroft wouldn't need to monitor him constantly. He was only doing what he should've done the last time he was on this roof. He was foolish to think he was worth anything. He hadn't even realized he had started to cry until he felt that his shirt collar was wet. The phone beside him vibrated again.

He glanced at it and nearly barfed as he saw the caller ID was John. He declined it immediately. John was probably just calling to yell at him and threaten him. Damn Lestrade, he probably called and told him about Billy.

"Sherlock?" His name was in the wind. He spun around confused and glanced across the roof. He stepped off the edge and onto the concrete of the roof. He sat and leaned against a nearby electrical box. He closed his tired eyes and sighed in content. He could slowly feel himself fading as the drugs coursed through his veins.

"Sherlock Holmes! What do you think you're doing?" His eyes snapped open at the voice and he looked beside him.

Mary Watson sat next to him with her knees drawn to her chest and her short hair blowing in the wind.

"Mary? I'm dead aren't I?" He whispered as he lifted a shaking hand and placed it on her knee.

She laughed coldly. "No, you goof. Not yet at least. You have to keep going though, John needs you." She looked up and stared into his reddened grey eyes. "Rosie needs you."

Sherlock scoffed and jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. "He made it clear he doesn't need me or want me. Rosie is a baby she hardly needs her eccentric dangerous godfather- an eccentric dangerous sociopath in her life."

Mary laughed in her funny little way that always made John smile even when Sherlock pissed him off. "You've never known or seen John or Rosie without you. You have no idea how much they need you."

Sherlock mindlessly dragged his nails across the concrete of the roof. "You're dead. You're not here. This is just the drugs. The overdose. It's my brain trying to stop me."

Mary frowned, "maybe you should look down."

Sherlock went to look at her but the space beside him was empty. He stood using the box to balance himself. He felt dizzy and out of place. He pushed himself back up onto the ledge and stared beneath him. Molly was still standing there with large tears streaming down her face. In addition to that, he could see a police cruiser on the street. The doors of the cruiser flew open and a panicked Greg Lestrade was running across the lot. He looked up and his panic increased immediately. He watched the D.I. reach into his pocket and withdraw his phone. Sherlock’s phone vibrated from beside him. He snatched it and answered it with a quick swipe.

“What.” He snapped into the phone. “Are you here to arrest me for the drugs and public intoxication? Because as you can see there is really no point.”

“Sherlock, please don’t. You’re high, you aren’t thinking straight. Just stop.” Lestrade pleaded into the phone hoping to buy enough time.

“When have I ever done something without thinking it through. This is the right choice.” Sherlock assured him.

“Why, just tell me why,” Lestrade asked.

“It’s all too much. The emotions and pain. The loss. I just want it to stop." Sherlock choked on a sob, "I've done nothing but cause people I love pain and heartbreak."

Lestrade blinked back his own tears. How could he not see how bad his friend was hurting? He gripped the phone in his hand tightly, praying that John would show up in time. All Lestrade had time for was to shoot a quick text that said "Sherlock. Barts. Roof. Jump." He hoped Doctor Watson understood the message.

"Sherlock, please-" the line went dead. Lestrade slammed his phone against his head in frustration.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hand. He was confused by John's seven missed calls and thirteen unread texts. He didn't care enough to look. He dropped the phone off the edge, satisfied with the crunch as it hit the road. He looked up and appreciated the rising sun once again.

Lestrade nearly shouted with relief as John's car sped up to the hospital, stopping halfway on the sidewalk. The doctor jumped from his car and grabbed Rosie from the backseat. Lestrade was startled when John roughly handed the baby to him and took off into the building without a word. He didn't miss the tears on the soldier's face.

Sherlock always liked the sunrise. It was part of the reason he didn't sleep. He liked watching the sky change from a deep blue to a beautiful array of colors. He nearly fell at the sound of the metal door screeching open. He whipped around to see John Watson panting and leaning against the door frame. John hoisted himself upright and took several steps onto the roof.

"I love you." John cried. It was loud and filled with anguish.


	2. Part II

"What?" Sherlock squinted at him in confusion.

John brushed away his tears with the sleeve of his jumper. "You heard me you wanker… I said I love you."

Sherlock still didn't move from the ledge. "You love me?"

John scoffed but it sounded more like a breathless laugh. "Yes! If you do this I swear to God I'll follow you, because I need you. Hell, Rosie needs you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and god forbid your brother needs you!"

Sherlock took a hesitant step from the ledge back onto the roof. "Why now?" He asked.

"I was angry. I was angry at you because I love you and I knew it was wrong. I blamed you for Mary because I couldn't face the fact that I love you far more than I loved her. Being angry at you was easier than facing the fact my marriage was a lie." John was ranting letting his tears gather on the collar of his jumper.

Sherlock had no words. He wasn't entirely sure he wasn't dreaming. He wanted to hear those words for nearly a decade and now he didn't know where to go from there.

"Sherlock, I know you don't do relationships. I'm sorry I'm putting this on you but I need you to stay. I don't expect anything from you. I know you don't feel the same." John pleaded, the soldier was visibly shaking.

Sherlock frowned, "you're wrong."

John scoffed, "what?"

"I do feel the same," Sherlock whispered only loud enough for John to hear. "I do love you."

John let out a half laugh half sob as he launched himself forward. Sherlock was put slightly off-balance at the death gripping hug. John had buried his head into his chest and gripped the back of his coat with immense strength. Afraid that if he let go the floor would drop and Sherlock would be gone again.

"Don't you ever do that to me again, or I swear to God I'll kill you," John growled but his empty threat was muffled by the wool.

\----------------  
Lestrade grew more concerned with each passing minute he couldn't see John or Sherlock. He held baby Rosie close to his chest, comforted by her random babble. He was pleased when he saw John leading Sherlock out of the front door. Lestrade was startled by the detective's stressed appearance. Sherlock wasn't looking at anyone, deciding the concrete was more interesting  
His face was pale and his eyes were surrounded by a ring of red. He was shaking violently and seemed unstable on his feet.

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with emotionless eyes. "Are you here to arrest me, detective?"

Lestrade frowned, "no I'm not going to arrest you. Just give me the rest of the drugs, and we can forget you trespassed onto the roof. You should really turn around and go back into the hospital because you look like shit, mate."

John lifted his eyebrow in surprise and gave Lestrade a warning look. No cussing in front of Rosie.

Sherlock shrugged and reached into his coat pocket to remove the bag of drugs he purchased. There wasn't much left. The younger of the three men began walking away without a word.

"Sherlock? Where the hell are you going?" John called as he grabbed Rosie from Lestrade and raced to catch up with his friend.

"Home."

John reached out and grabbed his shoulder while clutching Rosie against him with his other hand. "With me. You're coming home with me. You need someone to look after you." John explained.

Sherlock scoffed. "John-"

"No, you're coming with me. Now, please."

Rosie struggled in John's arms trying to reach Sherlock. John shrugged before offering the girl to Sherlock. The younger man looked startled at the thought.

"I shouldn't." He whispered and dropped his head down.

"You should. She wants you. Do you know how fussy she gets when she doesn't have her stuffed bee? She recognizes pictures of you and gets excited when we pass Baker Street. You've probably spent more time with her then I have. You're her other parent, not Mary. Now hold your daughter before she starts crying." John stepped forward pressing the baby against Sherlock's chest so he had no choice but to hold her.

The infant gripped the lapels of his coat and giggled happily. Sherlock hesitantly looked into the child’s blue eyes. Rosie was a mirror image of John Watson with her soon to be thick blond hair, short nose, and soft jaw. There wasn’t much of Mary to be seen in her genetics besides her ears. Sherlock smirked at the baby’s giggles and gave her a small kiss on the nose. He looked up to see John smiling fondly.

“See, she missed you,” John said with a grin.

Sherlock squeezed Rosie lightly in adoration. “I share the same sentiment.” John knew this was Sherlock talk for “I missed her too”.

Both men turned at the sound of loud dress shoes hitting the pavement. It was, of course, Mycroft Holmes with a face of horror and relief. The older Holmes moved quickly towards Sherlock while assessing him with his eyes.

“Jesus, Sherlock you’re going to give mummy a heart attack!” Mycroft stopped a foot away, standing next to John.

Sherlock looked down guiltily, “I apologize for the distress I have caused you both.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Sherlock, I think that we’re the ones who are sorry. I should have paid closer attention." Mycroft frowned for a moment, "Sherlock, what have you done to your hand?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but couldn't find any words. He looked down to see an obvious dark wet stain was on the sleeve of his coat. It seemed to have also bled through and was leaving drops of blood on Rosie's jumper.

John stepped forward and swung an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "I'm gonna take him home." He turned and led Sherlock back towards his car.

Mycroft watched with mild approval. Lestrade was still shaking with shock while staring at Sherlock's red eyes and pale face. He only nodded numbly as he watched John open the passenger door of his SUV. Sherlock winced as he handed over Rosie to John.

"I'm sorry about her Jumper, I'll replace it." Sherlock looked guilty as John placed the baby into her car seat.

"It's fine, Sherlock, really. It's barely anything. It'll come out with a wash. Now come on." John gestured to the front of the car. Sherlock climbed in and waited for John to do the same.

\------------------  
Sherlock froze in the doorway of John's flat unsure if he was even allowed to be in such a sacred place. John gave him an odd look from where he stood in the living room with Rosie.

"Sherlock, are you coming in?"

Sherlock jumped slightly and snapped his eyes back into focus. "Yeah, sorry."

John smiled as he placed Rosie into her playpen. The baby immediately giggled with delight when she spotted her stuffed bee.

John ushered Sherlock to the kitchen table and forced him into a chair. He pulled the coat from him and let it hang off the back of the chair. John cringed at the bandage on his hand and wrist. It was caked in blood and falling off at the fingers. He stood from the table to retrieve his kit from the bathroom before returning.

"Jesus, Sherlock what did you do?" John exclaimed as he began gently unwrapping the soiled gauze.

Sherlock looked away shamefully, not wanting to respond. John was confused as he got a look at his hand. It was a large gash that went from between his middle and index fingers to the middle of his palm. John was concerned when he noticed the accumulation of scar tissue around the wound. It was clear that it had begun to heal but kept being reopened.

"Sherlock…" John started.

"Stop," Sherlock whispered under his breath.

"Just- why, why did you do this?"

Sherlock sighed, accidentally clenching his hand into a fist instinctively. "I was high and I punched the mirror.”

John increased his pressure on his wrist as he pulled the last of the gauze from his hand. “That’s not what I was asking.”

"It was… distracting." Sherlock choked on the last word feeling uncomfortable.

John just nodded, not wanting to push the younger man. John irrigated the wound with saline before stitching it together and wrapping it again. Sherlock stayed silent the entire time. Rosie wailed from the living room as John stood to throw away the medical wrappers. He fled to the living room and returned with a fussy Watson. Rosie seemed to immediately calm at the sight of Sherlock but began struggling in John's arms. Sherlock could tell John was offended by this but didn't let it show as he passed the baby over. John was careful to nestle the baby in the crook of his uninjured arm.

"I wish I would've realized how much she missed you sooner. It would've saved me a lot of sleepless nights." John smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Sherlock didn't reply as he tiredly stared down at Rosie. John moved to prep a bottle in the kitchen but glanced at the other two occasionally.

John screwed the lid on the bottle before pulling a chair forward so that he was knee to knee with Sherlock when he sat. He crept the bottle into Rosie's toothless mouth and she began happily sucking on it. Sherlock looked up, his expression was mostly neutral but it had a large amount of confusion as well.

"I don't know what I would've done," John whispered as he wiped milk from Rosie's chin.

"Hm?"

"If Greg didn't text me. You would've jumped and I would've lost you a second time." Sherlock stayed quiet, shifting in his seat from the awkward silence. "It's my fault. You wouldn't have been on that roof if I didn't say the things I said to your face, through Molly, and with that letter."

"You were grieving." Sherlock defended but couldn't meet John's tearfully angry eyes.

John tightened his grip on the bottle. "That's not an excuse, Sherlock. I should've been there for you, you were hurting too."

Sherlock ignored him, and instead focused his gaze on Rosie. The closeness was making Sherlock's drug-addled head hurt. He could feel the tension of John's legs from how their knees were pressed together between the chairs.

Soon Rosie had gulped the whole bottle and was put down for a nap leaving Sherlock and John alone. Sherlock was sitting stiffly on the sofa feeling uncomfortable in the home that Mary and John had shared. The pictures on the mantle made him bitter. The one of John in the military when he was first deployed was the least distressing. There was one of Mary too, a maternity photo, her and John at the park, and a photo of the new family. The wedding photo made Sherlock's heart cramp painfully as he stood to get a closer look.

It was Janine, Mary, and John outside the chapel. Sherlock could see his own hat peak from below the frame. The fold was careful to ensure that it wasn't noticeable. He jumped at the hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, are you alright?" John asked as he stood beside Sherlock to observe the pictures as well.

"Nothing… the three of you look good in that photo from the wedding. I was just admiring the shade of pink you choose." Sherlock stuttered through his sentence pushing down his sadness.

John stared hard at the photo realizing that something was amiss. He panicked as he saw the sign of the top hat. He yanked it off the mantle and quickly undid the clips. He pulled the picture out and smoothed out the crease using the edge of the mantle. Sherlock grew greatly confused when he saw that his own picture was distorted and blurry from water damage. He looked at John for an explanation.

John sighed as he placed the picture on the coffee table. "It was my fault." He said through his teeth. "We were looking at the wedding pictures and I knocked my champagne over on the table. I ruined nearly half of the photos. We saved that one hoping at some point we could get it fixed or something. God, she was so upset that that photo got ruined. It might've been hormones but she just burst into tears and started yelling." John smiled somewhat fondly at the memory of his late wife.

John looked up at Sherlock and stepped closer to elope the shaken man in a hug. "You know I would never do that on purpose, right?" Sherlock nodded onto John's shoulder as he returned the hug. "Mary loved you. Maybe not the way I love you and not the way I loved her… but she loved you."

Sherlock's grip tightened on John's waist. The pain of finally hearing it was breaking him down. "I loved her too." He gasped out as he choked on a sob.

"It's alright, " John rubbed his back in comfort. "Let it out- I know you've been holding it in for a long time."

Sherlock hadn't remembered crying so hard since primary school. He felt he should be embarrassed but didn't have it in him to care. John was making soft shushing sounds in his ear much like what he does with a fussy Rosie. Sherlock sobbed in his arms for a long time, long enough that John had moved them both to the couch. They sat in comfortable silence for a while before John finally let go of Sherlock. Sherlock was surprised to see that John had dried tear tracks down his face as well. He didn't comment though as the older man hoisted himself off the couch.

"Come on, let's go to bed." John reached out for the younger man's hand. Sherlock took it, he approved of the idea even if it was only about noon. "It's been a long day and you need some rest and to sleep off the drugs."

Sherlock followed John to his closed bedroom door. He was uncomfortable at the prospect of being invited to John and Mary's marriage bed. John smiled reassuringly as he turned the knob and flung the door open. The room was dusty with disuse. Sherlock examined it carefully, taking in every little detail. The muddy footprints and various stains were created by an infant on the carpet. The walls were a pale blue with cobwebs hanging in the corners. Mary's vanity stayed untouched and dirty from her powders and creams. Mary's bedside table was filled with books, a lamp, and her reading glasses. John's however was bare except for two things, a picture of him and Sherlock and another lamp.

John cleared his throat as he pulled back the covers of the bed. "I haven't slept in here since- you know."

Sherlock moved further into the room not commenting on what he had said. He was too focused on the smell of Mary's perfume and John's cologne. He moved closer to the photo and reached out a hand and was an inch away from the glass-

"Don't touch that." John snapped from where he was standing on the other side of the bed. Sherlock stepped back as if burned. Suddenly the smells intensified and it all seemed too much. He was halfway out the bedroom door when John caught him by the wrist. "I'm sorry, it's just- that photo- Greg had it printed after you "died" he gave it to me a few days after the funeral. He said it was the happiest he had ever seen you before. Looking at it I realized, it was the happiest I had ever been too." John pulled Sherlock back into the room forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. "After a while when you feel like it's all you have left you get possessive."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry for everything I did to you. I wish there was another option but jumping was the only way." Sherlock looked nervously at the door feeling extremely uncomfortable.

John laughed bitterly, "Sherlock, you don't need to be sorry for that. I forgave you for that so long ago. Now come let's get to sleep before Rosie wakes up." John stood from the bed and continued pulling back the blankets before he slid himself in between them.

Sherlock circled around the bed and did the same. He turned so he was facing away from John towards the window. Sherlock felt at ease being surrounded by the smells of Watson's. He sniffed slowly, letting the smell of John (tea and rubbing alcohol), Mary (flowers and biscuits), and Rosie (baby powder and powdered milk) surrounded him. He jumped when a strong arm snuck around his torso. He turned to face John in confusion. As he looked into John's eyes all he saw was pure admiration and love. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled a hand out from under the covers to rest on John's cheek.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, too." John could barely hear it. It was enough however for John to lean further forward and press his lips to Sherlock's, who leaned slightly into it. John pulled back with a smirk.

"Go to sleep, darling." The words made Sherlock's eyes finally begin to slip close.

Soon both men had fallen asleep tangled in their limbs. On the bedside table, encased in a frame was the photo of John and Sherlock. Written on the back we're these words;

"He always said heroes didn't exist but he was mine. -the blogger"


End file.
